


The Necklace

by bettagettavespa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Destiiinyyyyy, I'm working on my other story, Johnlock - Freeform, Tumblr, Well not really, When I write these so many letters are italicized but then I post it here and they are gone, it's a story, necklace, oh damn these are meant to be tags about the story, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:17:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettagettavespa/pseuds/bettagettavespa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This is based on a post I saw on tumblr). Everyone is given a necklace at birth. It becomes warmer when you are nearer to the one you're destined to be with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Necklace

The silver semi-circle was ice cold against my neck as I got dressed. The woman in the bed beside me smoked lazily on a cigarette. Of course she wasn't The One. None of them ever were. However, the brief encounters made me forgot about the goddam necklace around my neck. Ms. No-Name next to me had a necklace too, obviously. Everyone had one. Hers looked like an iron rod. 

"Thanks for last night," I say, shaking her hand. Why did I always do that? Like, it was some buisness deal. She smirked at my hand and shrugged.

The sun was just rising as I left. As I always did after these nights, I hoped that my necklace would suddenly start to burn against me and I would walk-or rather limp-straight into whoever it was I was "destined" to be with. And as always, it was ice cold. Maybe my necklace was broken. Maybe I was broken. It wouldn't surprise me after everything. Then that horrible thought struck me again. What if I was one of those Single types? The people who weren't destined to be with anyone. I shook the thought from my head. I couldn't be. I had this... Void or something that had to be filled. I imagined a life with a beautiful wife and children, living in a small cottage, drinking tea by a fire. A sudden bang startled me from this daydream and suddenly I'm in fight mode. My heart raced and I tensed up, all my senses feel heightened. Just some stupid kid who kicked over a bin. I feel... disappointed? No, no. I feel relieved. Relieved.

When I returned to my flat, it hit me that I probably should've called a taxi. It also hits me that I've missed my appointment with the therapist. I have three missed calls from her. I don't know what else she can tell me. I mean, really. 'Write a blog". About what? The days where I just limp around the city before finding some random woman to hook up with? Or maybe the days where I just sit and stare at the gun in my drawer as my mind replays the horrors I've seen? No one would read my blog. Trust me.

As I limp around the park, it occurs to me that the semi circle around my neck feels slightly warmer, as if it's tingling. My heart leaps and hammers in my chest as I try to remind myself that this has happened before and nothing came of it.

"John? John Watson?" a voice calls me and I turn to see a large man in a tan coat walk towards me with a smile. I have no idea who is. He says a name at me but I'm distracted by how warm my necklace feels so I nod and smile at him. He reminds me that we were at Bart's together. Ah yes, Mike. And so, we get coffee.

We talk a little and, despite the distraction my necklace is giving me, I'm telling him how I can't afford London. He suggests I get a flatshare.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" I say with a small snort. He laughs.

"What?" 

"You're the second person to say that to me today," he says with a big grin. My necklace burns me slightly for all of a millisecond before I ask;

"Who was the first?"

*

 

Why on earth I'm following Mike to some "potential flatmate" is beyond me. He won't tell me anything about the person. He just keeps grinning that big, jovial grin. With every step my necklace becomes a little warmer and my heart beats a little faster. Soon, we're standing outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"Ready for the stairs?"Mike asks me with a small laugh. "I probably shouldn't have had that second helping last night," he adds gesturing at his stomach.

"Yeah, well, I probably shouldn't haven't gotten shot at," I gesture at my leg. Mike turns away and mumbles an apologise, which I wave away. I just feel on edge. Through these doors was The One. The person I'd been waiting for my whole life. 

We climb the stairs, which does prove to be a challenge for us both. We reach a pair of doors at the end of a long hall and Mike nods at me. We enter the room and suddenly I'm hit by blinding pain. My necklace burns against my skin. I want to rip it off and jump into a vat of ice, the pain is so immense. My heart beats like it use to in the war, fueled by fear and excitement. The heat rushes through my body after lingering at my neck and it's over in less time then it felt. I glance around the room and see only one other person. Tall, thin and pale with a mess of dark hair, immaculately dressed and... not a woman. He looks at me and our eyes meet, both of us thinking the same thought;

'You're The One?'

He glances away and doesn't say anything to me instead he asks Mike for his phone because the signal is gone on his and he won't use the landline. 

This?  
This is the person I'm destined to spend my life with?   
This horribley handsome man-child?  
Man?

I am not gay.

I'm not.

Mike's phone is in his coat so, I offer mine. Mike introduces me as the man walks over to me, his gaze never leaving mine. Our hands touch for a brief moment as I give him my phone and what feels like an electric shock rushes through me. This can't be real.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asks me. Mike smirks at me. 

"Sorry?" 

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" this time he looks at me and my heart skips a beat.

"Afghanistan," I answer, completely puzzled. Is he a psychic? I'm destined to a life with a childish psychic? What is happening? "Sorry, how did you-"

I'm cut off as he turns to acknowledge a woman called Molly who has brought him coffee. He says something about her lipstick as he hands me my phone but I'm too frazzled and I don't quite catch what it is.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asks as Molly leaves.

"Sorry, what?" that seems to be all I've said since I've met this man.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he turns to look at me. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Wait.

What?

How did he...

"Y-You told him about me?" I ask Mike.

"Not a word," 

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" 

'Tall, dark and handsome' has turned away and is putting on his coat as he makes... assumptions at me. All correct assumptions but assumptions none the less. I ask how he knows about Afghnanistan but he doesn't answer. Instead, he tells me about the place we're apparently going to rent in central London before telling me he has to dash.

"Is that it?" I ask. There is absolutely another meaning to this question but I know he probably won't say anything in front of Mike.

"Is that what?" he seems a little wary. If he could tell I fought in Afghanistan, he can definitely see the other meaning. 

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." Even if he is The One (which apparently, he is), it's highly odd that we would just rent a flat when we've hardly known each other an hour. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Problem?"

Cocky little bastard.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name,"

His eyes glint and he looks me over once.  
"I know you're an army doctor and you've been delivered home from Afghanistan. I know you have a brother that's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic but more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limps psychosomatic- quite correctly, I'm afraid." He looks me straight in the eye before taking a deep breath. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Then he does the cutest smile and I think my heart stops before I remind myself;  
This is crazy.  
I must be crazy.

I stand rooted to spot, gobsmacked. The man is about to leave but then pops his head back in and says;

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," with a wink.

And that wink right there was how I knew I was inevitably in love with this Sherlock Holmes.

*


End file.
